


The Heir of Oakwater

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Hypnotism, Incest, Inheritance, Kidnapping, Lawyers, Porn With Plot, Sexual Slavery, Shameless Smut, Wealth, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 08:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: A mini-novel of greed and sleaze.  When a 22 year-old trailer trash gold-digger inherits a massive fortune, her despicable in-laws stop at nothing to take her down… including employing a slimy hypnotist.





	1. The Vultures Circle

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

Charles Wilson Oakwater III passed away in the master bedroom suite of his home, the sprawling Stockwood Manor, just south of Albany, NY.  The date was April 14th, one day before Tax Day.  In a perverse universe, this was quite fitting, as the old man had partly amassed his enormous fortune by cheating the slow-witted IRS.  Now fleeing this mortal coil, he was one step ahead of the government’s collectors for the last time.  He was 89.

The death was a prominent one.  The Oakwater fortune had swollen to an estimated $2.3 billion, although no-one really knew for sure how much the old man had.  The Oakwaters were titans of industry and Wall St, one of the few families who could gesture and roil the global markets.  Corporations around the world waited anxiously to learn if the Charles Senior was truly passing this time.

This time, he was.

A large vigil of the extended Oakwater family clustered around the deathbed, dominated by the old man’s five direct children, aged 62 to 54.  Most notably absent at the gathering was Charles’ current wife, Mrs. Charles Wilson Oakwater III.  Aged 22.  Where the lady of the household could be, none could say, but all involved agreed it was best that she was not there.

No one was entirely sure how Charles Oakwater Senior met his fourth wife, the uncouth (and loud) Bellamy “Boopsie” Browne.  Without warning, she was suddenly installed at the Charles III' side for the Oakwater family Thanksgiving.  Charles was completely enraptured with Boopsie, allowing only her to take his withered arm or serve his brandy.  The rest of the mortified Oakwater clan were frozen out.  Boopsie saw to that.

In the blink of an eye, Charles and Boopsie were wed, and shortly thereafter, she was written into the will.  The Oakwater children - not invited to the ceremony - were appalled.  They had done all they could to slap some reason into the old man, but the cruel old geezer had threatened to cut them off if they defied his wishes.

And so, the Oakwater heirs suffered the indignity of a stepmother more than three decades younger than they were, who knew the words of every Kid Rock song, who considered bras and underwear optional, who rarely used utensils, who thought the family collection of Jackson Pollocks was “like, really barfworthy shit,” who drove their father’s Bentleys as if she were at bumper cars, and who was developing an alarming taste for Diamond Grand Cru Chardonnay ($2 million a bottle).

Now that Charles was gone, everyone looked to the lawyers and the will.  What was to become of the estate?

*****

Wanda Reede LL.M., the senior partner of Reede and Hamilton, sighed and set down the papers.  “I’m afraid its airtight, Chuck,” she said, her voice heavy.

Pacing before her was Charles Wilson Oakwater IV, now Charles Wilson Oakwater Senior since his wizened father was dead.  “You can’t be serious,” the former billionaire growled.

At 62 years old, Charles Oakwater was a lean, muscular man.  Ruggedly handsome, Charles – Chuck to his friends – had a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, piercing blue eyes, a set jaw, and near-perfect teeth.  In his Brooks Brothers, he looked trim and almost regal, save for the bewildered gaze in his eyes.

Charles paced the executive boardroom of Reede and Hamilton, working himself into a frenzy.  With him were his siblings, Charles III’s other acknowledged children:  Abigail, Randall, Stephen, and Jennifer.  All of the next Oakwater generation now glared at their lawyer, Wanda Reede, with increasing hostility.

“Your father’s will is immaculate,” Wanda solemnly informed the Oakwaters.  “He is explicitly clear that his spouse, and **_only_** his spouse, is to inherit his estate, properties, associated monies, and liabilities in the event of his passing.  There’s no ifs or buts about it.”

“Wait a minute,” Charles protested.  “That was how the will was written under Lydia, right?”  Lydia had been the previous Mrs. Charles Wilson Oakwater III, before Boopsie.  Lydia had been a cold bitch, but at least she looked favorably on the Five Heirs.

“True,” Wanda acknowledged, “but when Lydia died, your father didn’t modify the terms of the inheritance.  He did, however, update the document to name… er… Boopsie as his spouse.  Boopsie inherits everything.”

Randall, Stephen, and Jennifer went quite pale.  None of the Oakwater children had gone to college or bothered to establish careers; they had simply lived in obscene luxury, paid for with their cushy allowances.  Those allowances were **_not_** described in the will.

Inside, Wanda was scowling.  The Oakwaters, in her opinion, represented all that was wrong with America.  Slavishly rich and hopelessly spoiled, the family abused their position at the top of society and the economy to bully others, rig the system for their benefit, and then escape any consequences for their misdeeds.  Cocooned in a world of obscene privilege, they contributed nothing but took all they could.

Each of the Oakwater children were rotten to the core.  It would be a cosmic irony if they were now to be penniless due to their father’s lust and lack of foresight.

“ ** _Jesus Christ!_** ” exclaimed Charles, rubbing his forehead.  He’d just purchased a fishing yacht.  On credit.

“Well, there’s gotta be some way to contest this,” Abigail insisted, jabbing a finger at Wanda.  “The skank and daddy were only married for, what?  **_Five months?_** How can that count-“

Wanda held up a hand.  “Under New York law, that’s a valid marriage.”

“But,” sputtered Abigail, “they couldn’t even… you know…  **_CHARLES!_** ” she bellowed.

Her older brother glared at the ceiling.  “Wanda, there has to be **_something,_** ” he demanded.

Wanda sighed.  “Well, there is one provision which might help,” she conceded.

The Five Heirs went deathly silent, hanging on Wanda’s next words.

“It seems,” the attorney said delicately, “that your father was concerned about your stepmother’s… ahem, fidelity.  Do you know that she has been **_completely_** faithful to him?”

“She’s screwing the gardeners,” Abigail said, a little too quickly.  “Or the chauffeur.  Or the fucking paperboy.  I don’t know who, but the little whore was fucking someone, believe me.”

“Do you have proof?” Wanda asked plainly.

The Oakwater children said nothing.

*****

Lydia Fletcher, receptionist for Tom Stone, attorney-at-law, phoned her boss for the fourth time in a row.  This time, thank God, he picked up.

Sounding out of breath, Tom demanded, " _What the fuck is it?!?_ "

Lydia winced.  "Tom, we may have a new client."

Despite his panting, the receptionist could hear her boss hesitate.  New clients were always precious.  But what was that wet slurping sound on the line?

" _DUI case?_ " Tom asked quickly.

"No, Tom," Lydia squeaked.  "Its-"

" _Eviction?_ " Tom gasped.  Then in a hopeful voice, he tossed in: " _Workplace injury?_ "

Oh God, how he longed for a workplace injury.  WI’s were the mother lode in common law practice.

"No Tom, this is-" poor Lydia sputtered.

" _Look,_ " Tom rasped, " _I gotta go-_ "

" ** _TOM,_** " Lydia exploded.  "Its the Oakwater estate!"

" _The what…?_ "

" ** _Mrs. Charles Wilson Oakwater_** , Tom!" Lydia nearly shouted.  "The single richest woman in New York!  Get your ass back to the office now!"

Across town, Tom cursed and hung up.  "We gotta stop," he grunted at the stripper who was sucking away on his cock.

The 40 year-old woman looked up, surprised.  "But you ain't finished, hon," she pointed out.

His face red, Tom threw $200 at her – all that he had in his wallet – and yanked up his pants.  Within a minute, he was bustling out the front door of the Banging Booties strip club and barreling down Interstate 90.

*****

In his mid-thirties, Tom could have passed for a very handsome man.  He certainly had the strong jaw, thin nose, and piercing brown eyes of a go-getter.  But every time Tom gazed into the mirror, he failed to see how truly awful his pencil moustache looked, or that he used too much greasy hair gel, or that his off-brand tooth whitener was far too strong.  An exclusive diet of fast food had ruined a once-slim figure.  And not one of his suits were in style, ever.  **_Ever._**   Tom was in desperate need of self-evaluation skills.

Tom’s thoughts flew faster than his rusty Subaru.  _The Oakwater Estate???_ he thought over and over.  _Why the hell are they calling me???_

Now that his memory was jogging, he recalled reading about the Oakwaters in Fortune, the Wall St Journal, hearing about them on finance radio.  They were in, what, shipping?  Textiles?  Pork commodities?  Coal and natural gas?  All of the above?  And more???

The lawyer zipped through Exit 2 to Washington Ave, pausing only long enough to check out his latest billboard.  **_Tom Stone, Attorney-At-Law.  Because you deserve JUSTICE!  Call now!_**

Albany, like most state capitals, had an abnormally large legal community.  Venerated firms like Reede and Hamilton perched at the top of this vicious ecosystem; Tom Stone was lucky to be clinging to the bottommost tier.  He had **_barely_** obtained his law degree via correspondence school, mostly by cheating, and only passed the state bar because he had hired a poor law student to impersonate him.

And truth be told, while Tom Stone was respected less than the cockroaches which infested his rented office, he did generate a sizable income.  He was famous for his near-constant hustle and his willingness to take a case – any case – with little thought as to whether he could win.  Quite by accident, he had stumbled on a unique demographic: those in Albany living under the poverty line.

Tom’s problem was a hopeless addiction to cheap sex, mostly with bargain-basement ladies of the evening.  Which was why his second office was the Banging Booties.  Which was also why Stone Law Associates was over $80,000 in debt.

Tom’s cell rang.  Lydia again.

Risking a high-speed accident, Tom picked up.

“I’m nearly at the office,” he barked.

“ _No, Tom,_ ” Lydia cried.  “ _Oakwater called.  They want to know where you are.  You gotta get to their mansion,_ **now!** _I’m texting you the address.”_

“Fuck!” shouted Tom, and hung up.

*****

The craggy-faced butler who answered the door at Stockwood Manor cast a dour look over Tom Stone, but led him into the great house nonetheless.  Tom couldn’t help but gape at the vast interior of the mansion.  Workers were everywhere, packing up furniture and art into crates.  It was like watching the disassembly of a museum.

The butler led Tom up the master staircase, down a wide corridor lined with portraits, and into a large salon.  Here, a throng of workers, maids, artisans, and men in suits swirled about a very young woman, who was pointing at the every object in the room, one-by-one.  If she said, “keep,” then the object was left in place.  However, if she said, “shit!” then the indicated item was seized by workers and hauled out of sight.  There were far more “shits” then “keeps.”

Looking pained, the butler indicated the young woman to Tom and said, “Mrs. Oakwater.”

Tom gazed at the Lady of Stockwood Manor, impressed.  At twenty-two, Boopsie was young and very beautiful.  Her eyes were a dark, alluring blue, a perfect contrast to those fat, rose-colored lips.  Her mouth was always slightly open, offering a peak at her pearl-like, perfect white teeth.  Thick, curly red hair tumbled from her scalp to her shoulders and then down her back in a delightful, playful way.

Boopsie possessed a voluptuous body most men would find flawless.  She had it all: big, round breasts, slender hips, a tight rear, and long, long legs.  It was hard to say if she worked out or if nature had overly blessed her with an abundance of sex appeal.  Tom’s deviant imagination went to work trying to picture her in the nude.

Of course, Boopsie knew she was gorgeous and sexy, and rarely thought about modesty when she dressed.  For today, she had wriggled into low-cut jean shorts, heavy black leather boots, and a flimsy half tee-shirt which barely covered her chest.  The strings of her thong panties rose up to outline the top of her hips.  The only thing she wore which wasn’t suggestive were those heavy black boots which tromped firmly on the thick carpet.  On every finger and around her slender neck, Boopsie was wearing diamonds.  Lots and lots of diamonds.

Tom grew hard just gazing at his new client.  Boopsie Oakwater was dripping with erotic allure and money.  Plus, her expression was somewhat vacant.  So she was dumb **_and_** rich.  Every hornball lawyer’s wet dream.

As Tom’s mind worked into perverted overtime, Boopsie suddenly glanced his way.  Their eyes locked.

“Who the fuck are you?” Boopsie demanded, loudly.

Seeing his chance, Tom hurried over, pushing past the entourage to seize the young woman’s hand.  “How are you?” he grinned.  “Tom Stone, attorney-at-law, ready for **_all_** of your legal needs, Mrs. Oakwater.  You say the word, and-”

Boopsie yanked back her hand, saying, “Eww.  Dude: do not touch me again.  Got it?”

“Sure thing!” Tom promised.  He hesitated, studying Boopsie’s beautiful body up close.

“Hey…” he said, “I know you, right?  You appeared at-“

“ ** _SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!_** ” erupted Boopsie, making everyone in the room jump.  “ ** _DON’T YOU EVER FUCKING MENTION THAT PLACE!!!  I’M NEVER GOING BACK THERE, YOU HEAR?  NEVER!!!_** ”

“Okay, okay,” Tom assured her, his ears ringing.

The billionaire sexpot seemed to calm down.  “ ** _You’re_** the lawyer on TV?” she asked Tom incredulously.  “The one who wins all his cases?”

“Uhh,” Tom replied, thinking quickly.  “I’m the one who wins the good cases,” he said quickly.

“Fine, whatever,” Boopsie snapped.  She was still in an ugly mood.

The young woman turned her head to one side.  “ ** _EVERYONE GET THE FUCK OUT!_** ” she roared.  “ ** _NOW!_**   And someone get me that **_fucking letter_** from the assholes!”

There was a mad scramble as Boopsie’s people fled the room.  Tom couldn’t help but notice that many of the servants looked positively relieved to be sent away.

As Boopsie waited impatiently, a middle-aged woman in a black dress hurried up, handing over a thick envelope.  The woman immediately vanished.

“Here,” Boopsie snarled, thrusting the packet at Tom.

Tom took out the inside paperwork, scanning it quickly.  He knew what it was at once; this was a lawsuit.  A hefty, take-no-prisoners lawsuit.  The letterhead atop every page bore the crest of Reede and Hamilton, the most ruthless firm in Albany.

“Can you fucking believe it?” Boopsie scoffed, as if annoyed.  “I’m being sued by my husband’s idiot children.”

“I see that,” said Tom, reading.  In a nutshell, the lawsuit alleged that Boopsie had cheated on Charles III prior to his death, and thus was not entitled to his inheritance.  Complete surrender of the estate was demanded immediately.

Inside the lawyer’s head, wheels were turning furiously.

“Hmm,” he said in a dour tone.  “Looks serious.  Do you have representation?”

“Duh,” Boopsie said.  “I have you.  Starting now.”  She stared at Tom as if she couldn’t believe anyone could be so stupid.

Tom nodded, struggling to contain his inner glee.  Lawsuits like the one in his hands rarely existed in isolation.  After the Oakwater children sued Boopsie, she would no doubt countersue them, and they would find another complaint after that, and so on.  With luck, these rich snobs would spend the next ten years litigating each other.  That was one rich gravy train.

“Well, let me get working on this straightaway,” Tom said.  “I gotta read this letter, see what they’re saying, and draft a response.  Could take some time.”

“Then hurry the fuck up,” snapped Boopsie.  “This lawsuit’s a total crock of shit.  I want you to crush them.  Like **_today_**.”

“Sure thing,” Tom promised, positively giddy inside.

He licked his lips.  “Eh, there’s the subject of my fee…”

The corners of Boopsie’s mouth turned down.  “How much?”

Tom’s standard retainer was fifty dollars, plus an additional fifty if he actually won the case.  Most of his clients didn’t have to worry about the second payment.

“For a case like this…?” Tom lied.  “One hundred thousand.  Standard rate.”

“…uh-huh…” replied Boopsie, her eyes narrowing.

Tom spread his hands.  “What can I say?  I’m in demand.  From being on TV, and all.”

The lady of Stockwood Manor rolled her eyes, then spotted a carved wooden moving case nearby.  She stormed over, lifted the lid, and peered inside.

Tom couldn’t help but stare at his client’s perfect ass as she leaned forward.

“Here,” Boopsie grunted, plucking a single Fabergé egg from the box.  She pressed it into Tom’s hand.

Disappointed, the lawyer looked down at the egg.  It was hand-painted depicting a mother and child in the eighteenth century.  A delicate gold ribbon trim threaded about the center.  He thought his grandmother had something similar in her Hummel figurines collection.

“ ** _That’s_** your retainer,” Boopsie said, cocking one eyebrow.

Tom must have looked doubtful.

“Oh, its totally worth… like, a lot of money,” Boopsie promised airily.  “You’ll get your hundred thousand when you win the case.  Not before.”

Tom’s smile faded somewhat.  Maybe Mrs. Oakwater wasn’t so dumb after all.

*****


	2. Oakwater Vs. Oakwater

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

Tom got right to work, which wasn’t saying much.  Three sentences into the Oakwater Vs. Oakwater lawsuit, he knew he was in trouble:

**_The Heirs of Charles Wilson Oakwater III, as represented by Wanda Reede of Reede and Hamilton, as and for their petition, respectfully alleges:_ **

**_PRELIMINARY STATEMENT_ **

  1. **_That Miss Bellamy Browne, (hereby “Boopsie” Browne), while precedently espoused to the aforementioned Charles Oakwater (hereby “the deceased”), is not the legally sanctioned designate to the estate, assets, demesne, and/or various assumed encumbrances, for the recognizable discernment of conjugal fidelity, either in_** **_affectivity or fornicative proclivity, in that and of its entirety whereby…_**



Tom read and reread the first page four times, understanding nothing.  If he hadn’t been told this was a lawsuit, he might have thought Reede and Hamilton were trying to nominate Boopsie as Person of the Year.

 _Fuck,_ the lawyer thought, rubbing his forehead.

Tom Stone may have been a poor attorney, but he was a shrewd judge of human character.  _These people are only threatening Boopsie because they haven’t any way to just take what they want,_ he mused darkly, while pouring himself some Jack Daniels.  _That means they’re desperate._

This was an encouraging thought.  Tom gulped down a shot, mulling his options.  His gut told him that Charles Oakwater’s children were bluffing, hoping to scare Boopsie off of their father’s wealth.  So why not call their bluff?  Chances were excellent that if he growled and made it clear that Boopsie wasn’t budging, well, the Oakwaters would realize they had nothing.  And retreat.

Acting on a hunch, Tom grabbed his phone and dialed Reede and Hamilton.  He needed to bluster his way past the receptionist at first.  But then the call was transferred.

“ _Wanda Reede here,_ ” a cool female voice on the other end of the line said.

Tom swallowed.  Time to play his hunch.

“Yes,” he said grandly, “this is Thomas Stone, of Stone Associates.  I am representing Mrs. Bellamy Oakwater.”

*****

Across town, Wanda Reede frowned.  Her assistant, listening in on the call, was already Googling “Thomas Stone” and “Stone Associates.”

“Yes, good afternoon, Mr. Stone,” Wanda said evenly.  “I trust you are calling in regards to my clients’-“

“ _Yeah, yeah, I have your third-rate suit right here,_ ” the voice on the other end of the phone said belligerently.  “ _I gotta tell you: I litigate all the time, and I’ve_ **rarely** _seen something as flimsy as this._ ”

“The Oakwaters are quite concerned about the miscarriage of justice regarding their late father’s estate,” replied Wanda in a frosty tone.  “Did you know Mr. Oakwater Senior, Mr. Stone?”

“ _That’s not the point,_ ” Tom Stone snarled back.  “ _We both know:  Your clients are just mad that daddy cut them off.  That’s too bad for them._ ”

Wanda’s assistant waved at her, then sent an IM containing a website address.  Wanda clicked it.  The low-rent homepage of Tom Stone, Attorney-at-Law, blared across her screen.  **_I will get justice - and money - for you!!!  Call now!!!_**   Half the three-syllable words were misspelled.

The senior partner of Reede and Hamilton sneered.  Now she knew her adversary.  Tom Stone was a worm, a sniveling charlatan to be crushed.  While Wanda despised the Oakwaters, she loathed phonies like this Tom even more.

Time to drop the hammer.

“I assume, Mr. Stone, that you are aware of New York State’s stringent actuary estate laws?” she asked coolly, then clicked on her phone recorder.

“ _Uh… yeah, sure,_ ” Tom Stone replied.

“Then, Tom Stone, you agree that your client, Ms. Boopsie Browne, **_will submit_** to a polygraph test in court?” Wanda asked, an edge in her voice.  “To verify her fidelity?”

The man on the other end of the line hesitated.  “ _Um…_ ” he hemmed, “ _yeah, sure.  Okay, sure._ ”

“Very well,” Wanda agreed.  “My assistant will contact you with details for the test.  Good day.”

She hung up, already gloating.  Game, set, match.

There was no such thing as an “actuary estate law,” of course.  And certainly nothing on the New York lawbooks required a legal widow to take a polygraph test to justify her inheritance.  But the ignorant Tom Stone obviously didn’t know this.

There were two possible outcomes now.  Outcome the First:  Boopsie would take the polygraph test, administered by Reede and Hamilton’s own people.  With the right questioning, they could make something, **_anything_** , look like a false response.  The Oakwaters would then declare that Boopsie had failed the test, thus “proving” she was in violation of the fidelity clause of her prenup.

Or… Outcome the Second:  Boopsie would refuse the polygraph test to which her idiot lawyer just legally committed her.  In that eventuality, Wanda would declare that the little bitch was obviously hiding something.  No judge would respect Boopsie’s character once Wanda was done with her.

*****

Tom Stone Googled “polygraph test” and turned white as a ghost.  **_Lie detector test???_**   Why the fuck didn’t they teach that a polygraph was a lie detector in correspondence law school???

*****

Boopsie didn’t take the news of the polygraph test too well.

“ ** _The fuck you got me into???_** ” she bellowed at Tom, her eyes almost popping from their sockets.

The sexy young billionaire was in Stockwood Manor’s master bedroom suite, supervising the removal of most of Charles’ extensive (and expensive) wardrobe.  A steady army of movers were pulling out everything they could find in the walk-in closets and boxing it up.  Tom hung off to the side, cringing.

“I… uh…” was all he could manage.

“Mother ** _fucker!_** ” Boopsie spat, glaring at the ceiling.

“Look, you were **_totally_** faithful to your husband, right?” Tom asked quickly.

Boopsie trained her fiery glare on her attorney.  She crossed her arms, but said nothing.

“Oh **_fuck…!_** ” Tom moaned.

*****

Sensing blood, Reede and Hamilton pushed for a preliminary hearing on the Oakwater Vs. Oakwater lawsuit right away.  The family pulled some strings, and Boopsie was scheduled to be in court for her polygraph within three days.  **_Three days_**.  The Oakwater children licked their chops.

Meanwhile, Tom Stone was wracking his brains for a solution.  Any solution.

*****

A few years back, Tom had been in Vegas, sampling the hookers and other assorted sleazy entertainment.  And he also attended the stage show of “Mandrake the Mesmerist,” who proudly billed himself as “ ** _America’s Favorite X-Rated Hypnotist!_** ”  Mandrake had entranced a dozen people to strip off their clothes and dry hump one another.  Tom still happily remembered the hot brunette who went up on stage a chaste innocent, but became a lusty Scores stripper while under Mandrake’s influence.

Tom realized:  If a hypnotist could convince the brunette that she was a slut, why couldn’t a slut be hypnotized to believe she had been a devoted wife?

There were literally dozens of hypnotists in the Albany phone book, but Tom didn’t want just anyone.  He wanted **_the best_**.  He wanted the guy who could zap Boopsie, erase her mind, and program her into becoming as pure as the driven snow.  That guy was Mandrake.

It took hours of working the phone, but Tom eventually tracked the entertainer down.  As luck would have it, Mandrake was touring.  And in Baltimore at the moment.

“How soon can you get to Albany?” Tom demanded, after a hurried introduction.

“ _Oh man,_ ” Mandrake drawled.  “ _I dunno, I got gigs every day this week._ ”

“I’ll pay you for them,” Tom said impatiently.  He’d figure out a way to make Boopsie foot the bill, later.

“ _Yeah?_ ” asked Mandrake, sounding suspicious.  “ _How much?_ ”

Numbers spun in Tom’s head.  “Two thousand,” he blurted out.

“ _Phhft_ ,” snorted Mandrake.  “ _’bye._ ”

“ ** _Wait!!!_** ” Tom screamed.  “Five- no, ten thousand!  **_Ten thousand!_** ”

“ _Fifty,_ ” demanded the hypnotist.  “ _In cash._ ”

Tom closed his eyes in despair.  _Fuck.  Fifty thousand?_   He’d have to front that money himself, as Boopsie was in no mood to pay expenses.  Hell, she still hadn’t given him anything, outside of that cheap-looking Fabergé egg.

“ _Yo, I’m hanging up,_ ” Mandrake warned.

“Okay, okay,” blurted Tom.  “Fifty thousand.  But you better fucking be here in Albany by Wednesday.  We need you before two PM.”

“ _Later,_ ” Mandrake agreed, and disconnected.

Tom let out a shaky breath, then began thinking of the loan sharks he knew.

*****

Boopsie showed up for her preliminary court hearing wearing, for once, something presentable and attractive.  She was clad in a flowery white dress, with a low neckline and sweeping skirt.  She even had the matching purse.  **_And_** put on makeup!  To Tom’s chagrin, she has still insisted on wearing her black leather boots, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

There was an hour to go before everyone stood before the judge.  Tom had bribed the courthouse clerk to let him use a small, private room in the basement, which is where he, his client, and a third guest gathered now.

“Okay, so what’s your plan, ace?” Boopsie asked sarcastically, eyeing the newcomer.

Tom introduced Mandrake the Mesmerist, who had come straight from the airport.  Mandrake (not his real name) was about fifty-five, tall and thin, far too tanned, with greasy black hair.  Everything about the man screamed **_CREEPY!!!_**

“This is the guy who’d gonna make sure you’ll pass that polygraph.”  Tom explained his plan to his client.

The jaw of the young billionaire dropped.  “The fuck you say?” she hissed.  “You want to… **_hypnotize_** me?  For this???”

“Listen to me,” Tom said, desperate.  “Do you think you can pass that test if they ask you point-blank whether you were faithful to your husband?”

Boopsie’s mouth opened, hesitated, and then closed.  She glared.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Tom moaned.  “Okay, okay, so we deal with it.  Here’s the thing: the lie detector can’t say you’re lying if you **_actually believe_** you were faithful.”

“Oh my fucking God,” Boopsie cursed, now fuming at the ceiling.

“Hey, there ain’t nothing to worry about, babe,” Mandrake said, in what was intended to be a soothing tone of voice.  “I do this kind of thing all the time.  Just listen to me, and-“

“Really?” snapped Boopsie.  “You help people beat fucking polygraphs?  Like, this is a regular job skill for you?”

Mandrake froze.  “Eh…”

“You two…!” Boopsie raged.  “You two fucking assholes should be ass-raped for this.  I can’t believe-“

“Look,” snapped Tom.  “You’ve got two choices.  Go up there like this, flunk the test, and lose your pretty new house.  Or…  let Mandrake… prepare you… and go back to owning several billion dollars.  **_What’s it gonna be?_** ”

*****

With some relish, Wanda Reede announced, “We would call Bellamy ‘Boopsie’ Browne to testify, your Honor.”

Judge Sanders, an ancient fixture of the state bench, nodded.  Boopsie rose from her table, and glided to the polygraph machine set up directly before the judge.  She smiled at Sanders, who, delighted, beamed back.  Despite his advanced age, the judge was a notorious womanizer.  He openly gazed at Boopsie’s ass now.

Wanda studied the young woman as Reede and Hamilton technicians hooked her up to the polygraph.  It was odd…  If half the gossip Wanda had heard was accurate, this Boopsie was about to lose the Oakwater fortune.  Yet the girl seemed calm, almost spacey.  Did she not realize the gravity of the situation?

The rest of the hearing room was tense.  The five Oakwater children, squeezed behind the defendants’ table, all glared at their stepmother with simmering hatred.  That sleezeball lawyer, Tom Stone, fidgeted in his chair, twisting a paper napkin between his fingers.  He was sweating.  Wanda felt vaguely pressured herself.

And the back of the room was filling up with other stray members of the Albany legal community.  They’d come out of bored curiosity, of course.  They wanted to see this voluptuous twenty-something who had slept her way to billions of dollars.  And they’d come to see the ridiculous Tom Stone get his guts ripped out by Reede and Hamilton.  They were like Coliseum spectators who came to see the Christians devoured by lions.

“We’re ready,” a technician announced.

Wanda watched as Harrison Glover, a junior member of the firm, asked Boopsie some control questions.  The lie detector calibrated perfectly.  So far, so good.

The senior council stepped forward.  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Oakwater,” she said neutrally.

Boopsie smiled, radiating blissful happiness.  Maybe it was Wanda’s imagination, but the girl’s eyes were a little unfocused, as if she weren’t really awake.  Unsettling.

“Mrs. Oakwater,” Wanda began.  “You wed Charles Wilson Oakwater III on December 15 of last year, is that correct?”

“Oh, it was the happiest day of my life,” the young woman sighed.

Wanda frowned.  Was this chick an actress?  “Just yes or no answers, please.”

“Yes,” nodded Boopsie.

The polygraph indicated positive.  The truth.

“And you were fully aware of the terms of your prenuptial agreement?” pressed Wanda.

Boopsie nodded, her eyes wide.  “Yes.”

Positive, said the polygraph.

Wanda delved into more details, nailing down the specifics.  Boopsie answered freely, scoring positive each time.  The crowd in the back of the hearing room hung on every word.

 _Now,_ Wanda thought, _time to cut to the chase._

“Mrs. Oakwater,” she intoned, “were you always faithful to your husband?  A simple yes or no, please.”

“Yes,” said Boopsie.

Positive.

Wanda blinked.  Had she heard that right?

“You were faithful?” she echoed.

“Yes,” repeated Boopsie, more earnestly this time.

Positive.

“ ** _Completely_** faithful?”

“Oh, yes.”

Positive.

Wanda felt her mouth go dry.  She glanced at the technicians, who checked the machine and nodded.  Everything was fine.

The attorney’s nightmare is to be in a professional setting, any professional setting, and to be caught unprepared.  Wanda was one of the best lawyers in New York State.  She’d made a killing in her field by always being prepared.  **_Always._**  She was a master at anticipating the road ahead.

Except now.  Too late, Wanda realized her fatal assumption: that slutty Boopsie Oakwater, the trailer trash billionaire, couldn’t **_possibly_** have been faithful to her decrepit old husband.

And yet, here they were.

Momentarily at a loss, Wanda moved to her table to sip some water.  She saw Charles Oakwater IV staring at her, silently raging.

In the back of the room, the other lawyers began to murmur amongst themselves.

Wanda’s head swam.  “You’re **_sure?_** ” she pressed Boopsie.  “You never… you know… cheated on Mr. Oakwater?  Not even in the slightest?  Not, you know, even an innocent little flirting or-“

“I was faithful to Charles,” Boopsie said calmly.  “Completely.”

Positive.

Wanda straightened her suit coat.  In a tight examination, she grilled Boopsie on her relationship with her late husband.  The younger woman answered all questions directly, with a calm smile on her face.  Each time, the polygraph assured all that she was being completely honest.

“Ms. Reede,” the judge warned.  “I think we’ve established that the young lady here has been a faithful and loving wife.”  The horny old goat beamed at Boopsie, who smiled sweetly back.  “Do you have anything else?”

All eyes fell squarely on Wanda.  In the back of the room, she heard a lawyer snicker.

A feeling of abject horror washed over the senior partner of Reede and Hamilton.  This hearing was **_supposed_** to be Wanda the Titan crushing Tom Stone for all the world to see.  Instead, she was losing – **_LOSING!_** \- to this cheap huckster!

Wanda made the mistake of glancing at Tom Stone in that moment.  He was grinning at her, with that cheap, shit-eating grin he used.  Oh, how she wanted to shoot him dead on the spot.

“Your honor,” Wanda said slowly, but thinking quickly, “I think we have all we need from Mrs. Oakwater at this time.  But I’d request another day so we can depose some witnesses.”

“There’s no mention of other witnesses in your brief, Ms. Reede,” Judge Sanders frowned, scanning the papers before him.

 _Of course there isn’t, you fucking moron,_ Wanda thought.  _I just thought of this right fucking now._

Nonetheless, Reede and Hamilton’s star lawyer convinced the judge to postpone the remainder of the hearing for a day.  It was the only face-saving move Wanda could think of in the pressure of the moment.

As the hearing adjourned, Wanda felt her face turn bright red.  The lawyers in the back of the room were wearing snide grins and throwing her sideways glances.  Oh, she knew them all.  She’d beaten them in the past.  But today, they’d watched her fall flat on her face.  The gossip would be excruciating.

 _I don’t care what it takes,_ Wanda thought, fury burning within her.  _I will win this fucking case and crush Boopsie Oakwater, once and for all._

*****


	3. Reversal of Fortune

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

Reede and Hamilton somehow managed to delay the next hearing for three days, no doubt working political connections.  Tom went from feeling anxious, then reserved, and finally confident.  A repeated delay could only mean one thing; the Oakwater lawyers had nothing.  Boopsie was in the clear.

Indeed, word on the legal street was that Reede and Hamilton had met their match in the underestimated Mr. Stone.  More than once, a fellow lawyer offered to buy Tom a drink when they happened to bump into one another in the street.  Reede and Hamilton were hated across Albany.

So Tom smiled to himself.  This victory was all thanks to Boopsie, of course.  She’d resented and resisted Mandrake’s hypnotism, but in the end, she’d proven to be an exceptional hypnotic subject.  Reprogramming her to believe she was a dedicated housewife had been child’s play.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Mandrake had said in amazement when it was obvious how deeply Boopsie had gone under.  “She’s a natural.  She can’t resist anything I tell her to do.”  A pause.  “Hey, can I borrow her for my shows?”

Amazingly, Boopsie hadn’t remembered a thing from the hearing when Mandrake de-hypnotized her later.  “Did we win?” was her first and only question.

*****

When no summons from Reede and Hamilton arrived by Friday night, Tom figured the game was over.  He gave up waiting and left his office.  There wasn’t enough cash for a trip to Banging Booties, so he headed for a nearby dance club, Thrash.  He was a little old for that twenty-something crowd, of course, but Tom liked ogling the women.

After lying his way past the apelike bouncer, Tom settled in at the bar.  He ordered a draft beer and began counting miniskirts.  There was a nice selection that night.

The lawyer’s lustful thoughts drifted back to Boopsie, especially once she’d been entranced.  The young sexpot had become a willing puppet in Mandrake’s hands.  Tom had been surprised at how aroused he’d become.  He was reeling with sexual fantasies.

_“You will strip naked and orally service your master, Tom Stone,” Mandrake would say, to which Boopsie would mechanically reply, “Yes master, I will obey.”  And then she would peel back that white dress, letting those nice round tits dance free, that perfect ass shake loose of its clothing bonds.  As Tom would gleefully sink his fingers into her thick, red hair, the enraptured Boopsie would kneel before him, unzipping his fly, and then drawing out his rigid cock.  With one long lick…_

Tom blinked, wrenching himself back to reality.  Maybe he could bribe Mandrake to enslave Boopsie for him later?  Once he’d won this case and raked in his money.

On the other end of the bar, a beautiful young woman sat, ordering gin and tonic.  Still erect from his hypnotized Boopsie fantasy, Tom couldn’t help but stare.  The young woman was small and very thin, with long, long legs protruding from a barely-there skirt.  The outline of her ass was clearly visible and it was obvious that it was firm and toned.  She wore a black top which, while billowing, hinted at the luscious body beneath.  Oh, and the woman had thick, brown hair, which swirled down about her neck and draped itself over her shoulder.  Her every gesture and look displayed grace and sensuality.

Tom stared.  He jumped when the woman glanced his way.  Their eyes met.

She hesitated, cocked her head to one side, and then smiled.  It was a slight smile, but possessed a world of allure nonetheless.  Tom offered back a lopsided grin.

The woman seemed to weigh something.  Then she picked up her tiny purse and drink and floated down the bar to Tom.  He couldn’t believe his luck.

“I know you,” she said in way of greeting.  “You’re… a lawyer, right?”  Her voice was soft and musical.

“Tom Stone,” the attorney said, quickly extending his hand.  They shook.

“Yes, of course,” the woman replied, her smile growing wider.  “I’ve seen your ads.  I’m Laurie.”  She added:  “I’m at NYU Law School.  Home this weekend for a break.”

A law student?  Tom leaned forward.  How could he use this to his advantage?

“Well,” Laurie said, sitting on the next stool, “you must have lots of advice for someone like me.”  She crossed those lean legs, pointing the crossed foot towards Tom.

“You could say that, of course,” Tom played it cool.  “I’m just wrapping up a big case this week, actually.  Happens all the time.”

“Really?” Laurie said, impressed.

“I can’t talk about it, of course,” interjected Tom.

Laurie sipped her gin and tonic, nodding.  “I get it.”  She tossed her hair, a sexy gesture.  “You’re self-made, right?  You work for your own firm?”

That was technically true.  Tom shrugged, but his grin was growing wider.  “I started with just these two hands and a hundred dollars.  Look at me now.”

“Wow,” said Laurie.  “That’s **_amazing._**   I hope I can do something like that after I pass the bar.”

“You could work for me,” Tom offered, a little too quickly.

Laurie smiled, blushing a little.  “Uh, no, thanks.”

The lawyer backed off.  He was dazzled by this beauty’s attention and her body.  Her butt was delectable, he already knew.  It was hard not to stare at her chest.  He ached to know her cup size.

“So,” Laurie teased, “how’d you do it?”

“Do what?” Tom asked.  Laurie had big, brown eyes.

The young woman leaned closer.  “Make it big from nothing,” she murmured.  “You must be crazy smart.”

“Well, you know,” said Tom, “I eat law books for breakfast.  Good for fiber.”

It was a terrible joke, and terribly delivered.  Nonetheless, Laurie laughed, a delightful, lilting sound.

“Oh my god,” she smiled.  “You’re so funny.”

She moved closer.  “You want to sit in the back?” she asked softly.  “We could talk.”  She touched Tom’s forearm.

The lawyer felt himself turn to mush.  Flirting with twenty-something hottie?  All thoughts of an enslaved Boopsie Oakwater evaporated from his imagination.

Laurie gestured, and the two threaded their way around the dark dancefloor to the booths on the other end of the club.  Most of these spaces were occupied by college kids making out or snorting something.

“Here,” Laurie invited Tom, sliding into the last available booth.  It was nearly pitch-black here.  The lawyer set his beer on the table and squeezed in next to her.  He felt their hips and arms touching.

Laurie snuggled closer, and he could smell her perfume.  “I’ll be taking the bar next year,” the young woman said, running two fingers up Tom’s bicep.  “Tell me everything I need to know once I pass?”

Tom found himself babbling like crazy.  It was like Laurie had him under truth serum.  Of course, he really didn’t have any useful advice for an actual lawyer, but he was an expert at lying.  Now, he shoveled out any fib his brain could summon.

Laurie listened intently, drawing closer and closer as he talked.  At the mention of his first successful lawsuit (completely fictional, alas), her hand dropped from Tom’s arm to his thigh.  He was having a hard time maintaining concentration.

“You’re soooo awesome…” the law student whispered, and leaned forward to nibble Tom’s earlobe with one playful bite.  “Tell me about your current case?  It sounds so thrilling.”

Despite his arousal, a faint alarm bell went off in Tom’s head.  Discussing a current case, even one that was in the bag, was always a bad idea.

“Oh…” he gasped, “we could talk about the time when I-“

“No baby,” Laurie murmured, and her hand fell into Tom’s lap.  Those delicate fingers began rubbing lightly on Tom’s erection.  “It excites me to hear about what you’re doing **_now._** ”

 _What the hell,_ Tom thought, his heart racing.  He was **_this close_** to getting laid, he could smell it.

Under Laurie’s stimulation, he began discussing the Oakwater case, at first speaking as broadly as possible.  His companion was enraptured.

“Oh my God,” she breathed when he mentioned Wanda Reede.  “You are arguing a case against **_Reede and Hamilton?_**   Goddamn, baby…!”

Using both hands, Laurie released Tom’s belt buckle and then unzipped his fly.

“We should stop,” Tom forced himself to say.

“Oh baby,” whispered Laurie, between soft kisses on his neck, “this is your **_best_** story.  Please tell me what happened…?”

She gently drew back Tom’s boxer briefs and her fingers brushed his naked cock.  He gasped in delight.  Not that anyone could see them in the darkness, but thank God that the table hid everything.

“I…  I…” Tom stammered.

“Tell me,” commanded Laurie.  Her fingers wrapped around Tom’s shaft.  She began stroking, slowly.

Tom was now in her power.  He tried to resist, but Laurie slowly extracted every detail of how he had triumphed over Wanda Reede.  She knew how to apply pressure when he didn’t answer and how to reward him with a taste of wonderful when he responded.

Soon Laurie knew almost everything.  She was pumping Tom quickly now, bringing him close, so close, to spouting off.

“I just need to know one more thing, baby,” she breathed, pressing her breasts against Tom’s arm.  “The name of your hypnotist?  Tell me that?”

“Oh god…!” reeled Tom.

Laurie slowed down, squeezing a little.  “You can tell me, baby,” she promised softly.

“Mandrake!” Tom heard himself blurt out.  “Mandrake the Mesmerist!”

“Ah, that’s a good little boy,” Laurie purred.  She resumed the full stimulation.

And then Tom was cumming.  He literally couldn’t stop himself.  Flowing like a garden hose, he erupted in white, sticky joy right there under the table.  His mouth dropped open and his eyes rolled back.  “Ohhhhh….!” He gasped.

Laurie continued stroking, slowing down, allowing Tom to enjoy the complete lifespan of this orgasm.  Oh man, it had been a **_long_** time since he’d cum like this!  Having sex with cheap strippers or hookers always led to cheap orgasms; this was quality material.

Finally, Tom’s cock finished and began its slow droop back into his pants.  His heart was racing.  His hands clenched the booth seat.  His lap was hosed down in gooey semen.

Laurie released her grip and kissed Tom softly on the cheek.  “I’m going to wash my hand, baby,” she murmured.  “Be right back.”

And then she was gone.

She did not return.

*****

An hour later, Wanda Reed dialed her star client.

“I know how the little slut and her dirtbag lawyer cheated the polygraph,” Wanda Reede told Charles Oakwater IV.  She relayed the details.

“ _Hmmgh,_ ” Charles grunted on the other end of the line.  “ _You’re sure about this?_ ”

“Completely,” assured Wanda.  “I can’t reveal my source.”

“ _But you’ll need to,_ ” the eldest Oakwater protested.  “ _We have to take this to the judge._ ”

“We’re **_not_** taking this to Judge Sanders,” snapped Wanda.

Sounding bewildered, Charles asked, “ _So… what then?_ ”

Wanda rolled her eyes.  For all his status, Charles could be a very obtuse man.  “You’ll have to figure out the next step,” she warned.  “I’ve gotten more involved than I wanted already.”

There was a pause.

“ _What was the name of that hypnotist, again?_ ” Charles asked.

Wanda obliged him, then promptly hung up.  She reached for the brandy.

Hiring a call girl to stalk and shake down that hornball Tom Stone was obviously illegal.  But it couldn’t be helped; the honor of Reede and Hamilton was at stake.  And who would know?  The prostitute could be relied upon to remain silent.

On the other hand, Lord knew about that shady hypnotist.  _Let Charles get his hands dirty for once,_ Wanda thought.  _If this thing goes tits-up, let him end up smelling like shit.  At least the firm will be protected._

She poured herself a stiff one.

*****

Charles should have been at home, helping his wife tuck the children into bed.  Instead, he was at the apartment of his favorite mistress.  They had just been about to screw when the blasted phone had rung.

“Baaaaaaaaa ** _by_** ,” the mistress called from the bedroom.  “Come to bed…!”

Charles scowled.  He was already dialing.

*****

Somewhere in Richmond, VA, Mandrake the Mesmerist was in a bar, putting his best moves on a skeptical Irish hottie.

“Oh **_baby,_** ” he promised, “I can hypnotize you to feel the best orgasms of your life, believe me.”

The hottie looked repulsed, but her girlfriends erupted in delighted laughter.

“Go and-“ the hottie began.

Mandrake’s cell rang.  Albany area code.

“Fuck,” he swore.  He had to take this.

The hottie, glad to be rid of him, turned back to her drinking buddies.

“Whadda ya want, Tom?!?” Mandrake hissed into his phone.

The male voice on the other end of the line sounded stuffy and insulted.  “ _Mr. Mandrake, I presume?_ ”

Mandrake frowned.  “Yo.”

“ _This is Charles Oakwater,_ ” the stiff said.  “ _Can you fly to Albany immediately?_ ”

“Albany?” echoed Mandrake.  “Fuck that, I just got back from-”

“ _Your fee would be five hundred thousand dollars,_ ” said the stiff.  “ _Cash._ ”

“I’ll check the flights,” Mandrake quickly said.

*****

The second hearing for the Oakwater v. Oakwater lawsuit was abruptly scheduled for the next day.  Tom and Boopsie were caught off-guard, but made the courthouse on time nonetheless.

Tom was nervous.  After nearly a week of stalling and silence, Reede and Hamilton **_now_** wanted to play hardball?  Something was up.

His hunch was proven correct as he and Boopsie threaded their way through the second floor corridor, on their way to Hearing Room 11-A.  Wanda Reede suddenly materialized from the crowd about them.

“A word, councilor?” she said to Tom.

Tom and Boopsie exchanged glances.  Perhaps the Oakwater children wanted to settle?  No, that made no sense.  There was nothing to settle.  Either they dropped their lawsuit, or faced humiliation.

Tom shrugged.  “I’ll meet you in the hearing room,” he told his client.

Boopsie proceeded without him.  Once again, she was wearing a proper dress, this one dark red with a high collar.  The black boots were, as always, on her feet.

The hearing room was empty, the lights dimmed, when she entered.  Odd.

No, that wasn’t entirely true.  There was a man sitting in her chair, dressed in black with black sunglasses, his feet up on the table.  Boopsie frowned, approaching.  The man rose to face her.

“Hey,” the young woman exclaimed as she squinted in the faint light, “I know you!”

“Hey babe,” Mandrake the Mesmerist grinned.

Before Boopsie could retort, the hypnotist stepped forward, passing a hand over her face.

“ ** _Sleep…!_** ” he commanded.

*****

Tom was astounded.  For twenty minutes, Wanda Reede berated him on the merits of his defense, the manner with which Boopsie treated her stepchildren, even the fact that Boopsie had married Charlies Oakwater Senior in the first place.  There was no acknowledgement that the lawsuit was brainchild of the Five Heirs, that Boopsie was legally the Heir of Oakwater, nothing.  The whole meeting was nothing but a vent session.  He never got a word in edgewise.

By the time Tom got to the hearing room, people were filing in.  Judge Sanders was settling into his perch, and the back of the room was being populated by a crowd of lawyers, eager to see a repeat of Reede and Hamilton’s disgrace.  Boopsie sat alone at the defendant’s table, quiet and distracted.

“You ready to finish this?” Tom asked her as he sat.

Boopsie didn’t reply.

At the last possible second, Wanda Reede and the Five Heirs appeared, sweeping to their table and not sparing a single glance for Tom or his client.

The judge rapped his gavel, and the hearing formally began.

“Your honor,” Wanda said regally, “we’d like to call Bellamy ‘Boopsie’ Oakwater to the stand.”

Judge Sanders frowned.  “This is a preliminary hearing, Ms. Reede.  Are you arguing your entire case today?  Highly irregular.”

“Mrs. Oakwater must answer some simple questions to demonstrate the validity of my clients’ case, your Honor.”

The judge frowned again, but nodded.  “Very well.”

Boopsie was called and sworn in.  She sat in the witness stand, a particular look on her face.

Wanda immediately went for the jugular.  “Mrs. Oakwater,” she asked plainly, “ ** _under oath_** , can you tell the judge how you faked the results of the polygraph?”

Her expression completely blank, Boopsie replied without hesitation:  “Oh, I was under hypnosis.  I got hypnotized to believe everything I said.”

Tom’s face went slack.  In the back of the hearing room, the vulture lawyers hung on every word in silence.

Judge Sanders gaped, clearly not expecting this turn of events.  “Mrs. Oakwater,” he exclaimed, “you **_do_** realize what you are saying, don’t you?”

“ ** _Fuck you, judge!_** ” Boopsie thundered, making everyone in the hearing room jump.  “Once this stupid hearing is over, I’m using my money to buy every fucking election in this shithole town, **_do you hear me?!?_**   No-one’s ever going to push me around, again!  **_Motherfuckers!_** ”

“And **_stop staring at my tits!_** ” Boopsie added to the judge, acid in her voice.  “My eyes are up here!”

And things really went downhill from there.

*****

In the space of an hour, everything changed.

Under Wanda’s examination, Boopsie fessed up to several affairs and trysts, all in Charles Senior’s final days.  In the process, she continually insulted and berated the judge, practically daring him to remove her inheritance.

Which, of course, Judge Sanders promptly did.  With relish.

An hour later, Charles Oakwater IV was once again named the executor of his father’s estate.  His first act was to evict his stepmother from all Oakwater properties, effective immediately.  Boopsie was not even given a chance to pack up her belongings; those would be sorted through later to remove anything that once belonged to the estate.

Reede and Hamilton immediately recaptured their invincible reputation, striking fear once more into any lawyer who dared oppose them.  Wanda Reede, in particular, solidified her clout as Albany’s most ruthless litigator.

And Tom Stone?  Exposed for resorting to a cheap tactic like hypnotism, Tom fled the courthouse in disgrace.  He barricaded himself in his office, wondering how everything had gone so sour so quickly.

The worst of the whole affair?  Boopsie had never paid him.  Oh, he’d gotten that stupid Fabergé egg as a retainer, sure, but what good was a hunk of porcelain with a simple watercolor painting on it?

Tom thought about his expenses.  He’d borrowed under dreadful circumstances to pay Mandrake the Mesmerist, banking on pulling in many more fat paychecks from Boopsie in the future.  Now that future was turned to ash.  And his lenders were not known for forgiving adverse circumstances.

He was fucked.

In despair, Tom smashed the Fabergé egg against the wall, not caring where the cheap pieces fell.  He grabbed one or two belongings plus his emergency suitcase.  Then he leapt into his car, racing on I-90 North out of town.  He never returned to Albany again.

*****

Charles Oakwater IV, now rightly restored to his father’s fortunes, immediately focused on Charles Seniors’ will.  “I can make altercations as I see fit?” he asked Wanda Reede.

“You’re the executor,” she shrugged.

Charles spent a week with Reede and Hamilton’s paralegals, combing through every line of the will, rewriting as they went.  After the fiasco with Boopsie Browne, the eldest Oakwater was leaving nothing to chance.

And when Wanda saw the revised document, her eyes went wide.  “You’re naming yourself as the sole heir?” she exclaimed, aghast.

“Its what poppa would have wanted,” Charles asserted.

Wanda sincerely doubted that.  “But this would cut of your other siblings **_entirely,_** ” she said, gesturing to the redrafted will.

Charles arched one eyebrow.  His expression said, _So?_

Wanda shrugged.  She was billing $450 an hour to the Oakwaters.  If Charles wanted to screw over his brothers and sisters to satisfy his own greed, well, that was **_their_** problem.

*****


	4. Revelation at The Hootin’ Beaver

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

**Three Months Later…**

 

Charles had been mortified when he had set foot within Stockwood Manor for the first time as its master.  The venerated old house was nearly stripped clean.  That little whore Boopsie had packed up and sold off almost everything she could, right down to the portraits of Charles Senior himself.  All the Oakwater heirlooms, some dating back to the Gilded Age, were gone.

“Buy them back,” Charles ordered the housekeepers.  “I don’t care what it costs, find everything and buy it back!”

“That… could be expensive,” Mrs. Wilson, the head housekeeper, objected.

“ ** _Then spend the money!_** ” exploded Charles.

He was determined to restore every item of his childhood home.  So what if it cost a few hundred million to hunt down and repurchase all those lost items?  The Oakwater fortune was estimated to be nearly $2.3 billion.

*****

The hunt to reacquire everything was more challenging than anyone imagined.  Charles himself had to get involved, making personal appeals to Boopsie’s buyers, and often paying two or three times what the Oakwater items were worth.  The list of things to track down and retake seemed endless.

As the search became longer and ever more expensive, Charles found himself loathing Boopsie Browne more than he could fathom.  How **_dare_** that little harlot gut the Oakwater estate?  It was not enough that she was pried off the fortune, he eventually decided.  Boopsie had to be hunted down and made to suffer.

But how?

*****

Charles slouched in the back of one of the family Bentleys – er, one of **_his_** Bentleys, now – and rubbed his temple.  His headache was not getting any better.  At least Enrico, the family chauffeur, knew to avoid the potholes.

On the speakerphone was the second private eye he’d hired to track down Boopsie.  “ _Near as I can figure, Mr. Oakwater, the chick just… skipped town,_ ” the PI finished, somewhat lamely.

“She just skipped town,” repeated Charles, rather dryly.

“ _Yes, sir,_ ” the investigator said.

The other line beeped.  Charles swore, put the PI on hold and switched over.

“ _Mr. Oakwater,_ ” a relieved voice on the other line said, “ _thank God I caught you!  This is Claudia Purdum, from Willow Crescent Associates?_ ”

Willow Crescent Associates were the financial advisors for the Oakwater Estate.  Charles was learning that being a very wealthy man meant that your money people called you every hour or so with another financial crisis that supposedly needed your immediate attention.

“What?!?” he growled.  His head was throbbing.

Voice trembling, Ms. Purdum said, “ _Uh, sir, I was wondering if we could have an in-depth review of your overseas-_ “

 _Oh for fuck’s sake,_ Charles thought angrily.  These money people wanted to turn the management of the estate into a full time job – for him!  The point of handing over the reins was so that wealthy, important people like him had the leisure to pursue more important interests, wasn’t it?  Like tracking down and punishing Boopsie Browne?

“I’m sorry, I’m very busy right now,” Charles barked.  “We can discuss this tomorrow.”  He cut the line without a further word.

“ _Sir?  You there?_ ”  This was the PI, still waiting on Line 1.

“So,” fumed Charles, “let me get this straight…  You were tasked with finding a twenty-two year old bimbo who was previously spending hundreds of millions of my money… and you can’t find a fucking thing?”

“ _…uh…_ ” the PI fumbled.

Angry, Charles hung up on him.

Well, there was another three thousand dollars spent and wasted.  Charles glared out his window, wondering if his need for revenge was worth it.  Maybe Boopsie had fled Albany.  Maybe she was getting off a bus in Las Vegas right now.  No doubt she’d-

With a start, Charles realized the Bentley was pulling over to the side of the road.  Why?  There was nothing along this stretch for another few miles.

Enrico put the car in park, then swiveled in his seat to face Charles.  The chauffeur was grinning.

“Hey, Mr. Oakwater,” he said.  “I know where Mrs.-  ah, I mean, Miss Boopsie is.”

Charles couldn’t hide his surprise.

“You?” he echoed.  “And how would you know that?”

“Because,” the driver said, his grin getting wider, “I was the _hombre_ who got Boopsie and Mr. Charles Senior together in the first place.”

Skeptical, Charles demanded:  “Tell me.”

Enrico shrugged.  “Me and Mr. Charles… we had an, ah, understanding.  I knew his tastes, and I helped him find what he wanted.  For a fee.”

“Are you telling me-” Charles said, his voice rising.

“Shh…!” Enrico replied, gesturing with one hand.  “I’m just saying, _senor_ , I know where she came from.  And where she went.”

Charles crossed his arms.  “And you’ll tell me?”

“Sure, _senor_ ,” Enrico shrugged, still grinning.  “For a price.”

*****

The billionaire and driver met again that night, at ten o’clock.  Charles told his poor wife an obvious lie when asked to explain why he was leaving, and swept from the Manor before she had a chance to protest.

Enrico had been most particular.  Charles was to dress “causal,” which meant blue jeans, a shirt without buttons, and boots.  And when the two men met up, Enrico had scowled.  “Here, wear these,” he ordered, popping a beat up ball cap on Charles’ head and tossing a stained jacket into his arms.

“There,” the driver said approvingly when Charles had donned this workman’s’ apparel.  “Now slouch a little.  There, _senor_ , now you just look like Charles Senior.  Good.”

Curious, Charles followed his chauffeur towards the garage.  “No, sir, we ain’t taking the Bentley,” Enrico chided him.  “We’ll take my truck.  Ain’t no Bentleys where we’re going.”

*****

The ride was forty-five minutes in uncomfortable silence.  Enrico guided his ancient pickup over half a dozen county roads, moving deep into the rural countryside.  Soon Charles had no earthly idea where he was.

“Here we are,” the younger man announced as the truck rounded one last bend.

Before them was a one-story lodge with electric signs for beer, pool, fried pork, piercings, and much more plastered across the exterior.  Above it all, were neon letters, shouting the name of the establishment for all the world to see:  The Hootin’ Beaver.  The parking lot was stuffed with motorcycles and semi-wheelers.  Inside, the country music was blaring, barely rising above the yelling and laughing of drunken men.

“My father came here?” Charles asked, both fearful and repulsed.

“Oh man,” Enrico chuckled.  “Your papa **_loved_** this place.  He’d have me take him **_at least_** once a week.”

“Now,” the chauffeur said, all business, “here’s what you do.  Make sure to stoop when you walk.  Don’t look at no-one directly.  Don’t talk, let me do that.  No-one here knows that Charles Senior is dead, so I’m hoping they think you are him.  Oh, one more thing:  When you get to the door, give the man two hundred dollars.  You got that?”

Charles bristled.  Wasn’t he the master and Enrico the servant?  Who was this sniveling little man to dictate to him?

And yet…  the billionaire was intrigued.  His father liked this place?  How could that be?  Charles Wilson Oakwater III never so much as glanced at the common man in the street.  But he was a regular at The Hootin’ Beaver?

Charles IV hesitated, then nodded.  He’d play along.  For now.

And so the chauffeur led his employer to the front door, where a huge, bald man in biker leather and completely covered in tattoos stood guard.  Enrico gently nudged Charles in the ribs.

And Charles forked over the money.

“Well, hello, Mr. Jones,” the man said smoothly.  “We haven’t seen you in a long time.  Usual table?”

*****

Charles and Enrico were shown to the VIP box, which was really a private area off from the main floor.  Which suited Charles just fine, as the main floor was packed with men reeking of beer and vomit.  They were a surly bunch, dressed in worn leather, farmers’ clothes, and heavy boots.  Most everyone had a mullet and a cigarette.  All were missing teeth.  The snippets of conversations Charles caught were loud and crude.

But in the VIP box, there was a single table and two beaten sofas.  Enrico tossed himself onto one, and Charles carefully sat upon the other.  He couldn’t tell which sofa was the cleaner one; it was hard to say.

A fifty-something waitress appeared, a cigarette dangling from her lips.  She set a plastic pitcher of yellow beer, two tumblers, and a basket of red chicken wings onto the table.  “Show’s starting in a few,” she said tonelessly.  “You boys want companions?”

“Oh yeah,” Enrico said, already helping himself to beer.

The waitress vanished and was replaced by two young women, both wearing only short shorts and boots.  No tops.  The skinny one slithered up against Enrico, giggling.  The heavier one plopped down next to Charles, wrapping her arms about him.  “Long time no see, Chucky baby,” she cooed.  “When you gonna take me to that big house of yours?”

Charles was about to snap at her when the lights in the main room dimmed.  “ ** _All right, y’all,_** ” a gruff male voice thundered over the cheap speakers.  “ ** _Who’s ready for some fightin’, Hootin’ Beaver style???_**”

The audience – Enrico included – roared with approval.  Many men stomped their boots against the concrete floor.

“ ** _Allllllrighty then, lets’ rhuuuuuuuuuuuuumba!!!_** ” the voice promised.

Lights came up at the front of the room.  Charles was expecting a stage or boxing ring to be revealed, but instead, there was what appeared to be a pool of black sludge.

“ ** _Won’t you welcome…  GlamZONIA!!!_** ” shouted the announcer.

A nude woman appeared, stepping into the goo.  She was large, with a lot of fat on her bones.  Her bulging gut circled her hips, and her large breasts hung off her chest like saddlebags.  The woman’s hair was cropped short.  Her piggish nose had been broken at least twice.

Charles stared, both repulsed and aroused. 

Glamzonia paraded up and down the shallow pit.  The muck wasn’t too thick and only came up to her knees, so she could wade about without too much trouble.  She threw her fists in the air, defiantly bellowing in wordless shouts of rage.

“ ** _Her challenger…_** ” cried the announcer.  “ ** _Put it together for the sexy…  Nefaria!!!_** ”

And then… Boopsie appeared.  She was completely nude, not even wearing her signature black boots.  Charles stared in wonder.

Oh, since the day Charles and Boopsie had met, the older man had of course wondered what the younger woman looked like naked.  She was beautiful, but clearly had an award-winning figure beneath her clothes.  Now completely exposed, Boopsie’s body was even more luscious than Charles had ever imagined.  Her shoulders and waist were slim and narrow, making her round breasts and graceful hips even sexier than Charles thought possible.  You could see her abs neatly defined under her taught stomach.  Boopsie turned slightly as she stepped into the muck, and for a second, Charles caught a glimpse of her ass.  Her ass was so tight, with such perfect curves.

Charles’ breath caught in his throat.  He couldn’t take his eyes of Boopsie.

The former Mrs. Oakwater waded to the center of the mud pit, planting her fists on her hips, not unlike a superhero.  Her red hair was tied up in a tight bun.  She scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes, as if daring every man to bet against her.  She seemed completely oblivious – or uncaring – to the fact that she was nude.

The crowd bellowed.  There were loud hoots, sexual propositions, and loud wolf-whistles.

Glamzonia perhaps sensed that she had lost the crowd.  She lunged forward, grabbing Boopsie by the shoulders.  Boopsie tumbled backwards, plunging into the mud with a great splash.  The audience was splattered, but they screamed with delight.

But foolish Glamzonia then made the mistake of preening for the mob and turned her back on Boopsie.  The smaller woman – Boopsie was six inches shorter and at least sixty pounds lighter – rose up, her body coated and dripping with the black ooze.  Charles stared, completely mesmerized, as the sludge flowed off her shoulders, arms, and breasts.

The topless girl on Charles’ sofa tried to snuggle against him, reaching to stroke his crotch.  Annoyed at the distraction, Charles shoved her away.

Boopsie let out of primal roar and tackled Glamzonia without any hesitation.  Both women careened into the mud, a jumble of filthy arms and legs and breasts.  The audience hooted and applauded.

“ _Odelay!_ ” shouted Enrico, raising his beer.

Catching Charles’ shocked expression, the chauffeur laughed.  “Don’t sweat it, man” he said, perhaps a little too informally.  “Your old man, he loved this shit.  It was the highlight of his week, believe me.”

Charles frowned at his Mexican driver.  The young whelp was acting **_far_** too familiar and chummy.  Didn’t he know Charles was his better?  The senior Oakwater made a note to fire the young man once they returned to the mansion.

In the mud pit, Glamzonia was in trouble.  Boopsie was a dirty fighter and gave no quarter.  Charles gaped as the smaller woman seized her opponent in a painful-looking chokehold and dunked her back beneath the mud.  Both women were slimy and black from rolling around in the muck.

As Glamzonia floundered, Boopsie bent over her, pushing her down for a final victory.  Her mud-covered ass faced Charles, who found himself staring at the part where Boopsie’s pussy must have been.

He was erect.

*****

Everything changed for Charles after that.  He found his every waking moment infected with fantasies of Boopsie.  As he was eating meals, supervising the reacquisition of the Oakwater heirlooms, presiding over various estate matters, or even talking with his wife, Charles found it impossible to put Boopsie out of his thoughts.  Even his mistresses couldn’t distract him.  There Boopsie was, always there in his mind’s eye:  Naked, covered in dark, glistening mud, and defiantly glaring at him.  She taunted him with a mere flash of her eyes.

A little supplemental work by the private investigators had cleared up the bigger story.  Charles Senior had obviously fallen for Boopsie after seeing her wrestle at The Hootin’ Beaver.  Then, after the Oakwater fortune had been hypnotized out of Boopsie’s grasp, she’d found herself on the street with no-where to go.  Of course she’d slunk back to the Beaver.  It was either that or McDonalds’.

Charles should have felt completely vindicated.  After all, order was restored to the universe.  The trailer trash hussy had been exiled back to the sleazy pit from whence she came, and he was once again the master of his world.  All that remained was for him to punish her somehow.

And yet…  Boopsie stalked Charles’ mind with an unrelenting frequency.  He realized he was in trouble when he finally consented for a phone consultation with Claudia Purdum, the overly-excited woman from Willow Crescent Associates.  “ _Do you hear what I’m saying, sir?_ ” she asked forlornly.  “ _You’re making a lot of cash purchases lately, and you don’t have enough liquid on hand to-_ “

In Charles’ imagination, a mud-splattered Boopsie was slowly bending over, pointing her ass at him, and spreading her buttocks with graceful fingers.  She was pulling back her lower lips to show him-

“ _Sir?_ ” Ms. Purdum cried, sounding nearly hysterical.

Charles sighed.  Carnal thoughts of Boopsie were intruding constantly.  He couldn’t think, he couldn’t function.  He had to get the sexy little harlot out of his head, somehow.

“Look,” he said, exasperated, “just do what you always do when we have high expenditures.  Sell off some assets.  Just make it happen.  We’ll recover next quarter, like always.”

He hung up, already thinking of Boopsie in another compromising position.

Of course Charles realized he was fantasizing about fucking the woman who was technically his stepmother.  From his perspective, however, there was nothing Freudian about the situation.  Boopsie was never a maternal figure to him; how could she be?  No, she was his father’s **_possession_** , a trophy in which the old man had indulged before he died.  It would be no different had Charles Senior purchased a red Porsche convertible.

Besides, Charles mused, what were the chances that his father actually fucked his twenty-two year old bride?  Pretty minimal.  All the Viagra in the world couldn’t have elevated that ancient penis.

So if Charles Senior and Boopsie had never consummated, Charles Junior reasoned, then ethically speaking, there was nothing stopping him from banging the little slut himself.

He scooped up his phone.

*****

Somewhere in an Alabama motel room, Mandrake the Mesmerist was about to light up his bong.  His cell rang.

The entertainer let out a disgusted sigh.  He briefly considered skipping the call.

 _Fuck it,_ he thought, picking up the phone.

“…’lo?” he grumbled.

“ _This is Charles Wilson Oakwater IV,_ ” a familiar, stuffy voice said on the other end.

Mandrake hesitated, then placed the caller.  “Hey man,” he warned, “I ain’t doing no sessions in the courthouse again.  Last time, I nearly got caught and-“

“ _No, no, I don’t need that,_ ” the other man said, obviously annoyed.  “ _I need you for something else.  How soon can you be in Albany?_ ”

“I told you,” Mandrake frowned, “I don’t-“

“ _Your fee,_ ” the billionaire said, “ _will be three million dollars.  If you’re here tomorrow._ ”

“Let me check flights,” said Mandrake, quickly setting aside the bong.

*****

Two afternoons later, Boopsie trounced into The Hootin’ Beaver, already in a bad mood.  Her piece­-of-shit car was making that whirring sound again; that meant something expensive was about to break.

As chance would have it, she bumped into Mario, the fat, sweaty owner.  As usual, Mario stared at her tits before addressing her directly.

“Hey hon-” he began.

“Mario,” Boopsie cut him off.  “Three hundred a night isn’t gonna cut it.  I need five.  Or I walk.”

“Uh…” said Mario, still tit-gazing.  “Hmmmgh, we’ll discuss.  Listen, there’s a guy who asked to see you.  He’s waiting in my office.”

A guy?  Boopsie blinked.  Could it be a lawyer from the Oakwaters?  Those rich pricks had no doubt realized how much of Charles Senior’s possessions she’d managed to sell.  Maybe they wanted to sue her now or something?

The young girl pushed her way into Mario’s dank little office, shutting the door behind her.  She squinted at the fellow who now rose from the chair to greet her.  He was vaguely familiar…

“Hey,” she said with surprise, “you’re-“

Mandrake the Mesmerist reached for her, passing a hand over her eyes.  “ ** _Sleep…!_** ” he commanded.

Instantly, Boopsie felt strange, calm, and passive.  Her arms went limp and the backpack she always carried with her tumbled to the floor.  She couldn’t look anywhere but into the gentleman’s eyes.  Her boots seemed rooted to the floor.  She struggled to keep her eyes open.

She was being hypnotized again, Boopsie dimly realized.  Although she wanted to surrender, to obey, a part of her mind struggled to resist.

“ ** _Sleep!_** ” the hypnotist said insistently, stepping closer.  His voice seemed powerful and compelling.

Boopsie couldn’t hold out.  Her eyes shut, and she fell limp against the man.

*****


	5. To the Victor Goes…

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

Charles ignored the shouted questions from his wife, hurrying through the manor to the east wing.  Toward the unused spare bedrooms.  He should be undiscovered there, at least for a few hours.

Nonetheless, he locked himself into the master guest suite after he entered.  It wouldn’t do for any member of the staff or family to walk in on him now.

The suite itself was fairly large.  With two yawning bedrooms, a sitting and entertaining room, a kitchenette, and a lavish bathroom complete with Jacuzzi, a person could live here in relative luxury.  For a short time, anyway.

Inside the sitting room were two people:  Boopsie and Mandrake.  The young woman sat on one of the wraparound couches, her eyes closed and her body completely deflated.  She was obviously slumbering in a deep hypnotic trance.  Mandrake stood over her, as if she needed protection.  The hypnotist was gazing around the room, in awe of the luxury.

Charles’ eyes lit up when he spotted the hypnotized Boopsie.  Her red hair tumbled down, half masking her beautiful face.  Her chest slowly rose and fell under her thin tee-shirt; Charles could make out her nipples under the cheap fabric.  She wasn’t wearing a bra!

“My god,” the billionaire gushed.  He leaned over the young woman.  Without realizing what he was doing, Charles’s hands reached to cup Boopsie’s breasts.

“Hey,” Mandrake said with alarm.  He grabbed Charles, pulling the older man back.  “You gotta be careful, man.  She’s hypnotized, but she’s not a robot.  If you don’t set her expectations, you’ll break the trance.  And then we’re both fucked.”

Charles scowled.  “Alright, alright,” he said impatiently.

Mandrake let out a long breath.  “She’s something else,” the hypnotist remarked, running a hand through his own greasy hair.  “I’ve rarely seen a better hypnotic subject.  When you get her under deep and then give her a suggestion… wow.  It’s like she can’t resist anything you tell her.”

“Good,” gloated Charles.

“That means she is either exceptionally intelligent or incredibly dumb,” Mandrake said thoughtfully.

“Oh, I assure you,” the rich man replied, “it’s the latter.”  He leered at the young girl.  “Now… how do I command her?”

“Whoa,” snapped Mandrake.  “I hate to bring this up, man, but… your check bounced.”

Charles suppressed a groan of disgust.  Wasn’t that Claudia Purdum from Willow Crescent Associates supposed to take of matters like this?  How hard could it be to keep a few million in the checking account?

Embarrassed and angry, Charles made a note to punish Ms. Purdum later.

“Look,” he told the hypnotist, “why don’t you try the check again tomorrow, I’m sure-“

“ ** _No,_** ” replied Mandrake, an edge in his voice.  “Look, man, you pulled me off my tour and asked me to basically do a kidnapping and brainwashing for you.  I ain’t into that.  So either you pay me the **_three million dollars_** you owe me now, or I wake up little Miss Booby here.  What’s it gonna be?”

“Alright, alright,” Charles snapped, disgusted.  He thought furiously.

As chance would have it, some of the recovered Oakwater heirlooms had been stacked in a corner of the suite foyer.  Charles spotted a carved wooden box atop the pile, lying next to the security mini-cameras which should have been installed a year ago.

“Here,” he grunted, thrusting the carved box at the greedy hypnotist.  “These were the Fabergé eggs of Empress Maria Fyodorovna, wife of Alexander III.  They really should be in a museum, so treat them with care.  The set is worth, I don’t know, at least twenty million.”

Skeptical, Mandrake lifted the lid.  “Hey,” he said, annoyed, “there’s one missing!”

So there was.  The egg depicting Empress Maria and her child.  Inside, Charles cursed.

“It doesn’t matter,” he grumbled.  “Even incomplete, the set is still priceless.  You just have to find a reputable dealer who will take them.  Christy’s in Manhattan, for instance.”

Mandrake was clearly suspicious, but he accepted the box.

“Now,” Charles said eagerly, “how can I make her…?”

Sighing, the hypnotist leaned over Boopsie.  “And now,” he told his entranced victim, “I’ll count from one to five.  On five, you will awaken.  From now on, whenever Mr. Oakwater touches you on the forehead and says the word _Slave,_ you instantly believe you are his horny and willing sex slave.  You have no will or desires of your own, except to serve and pleasure you master.  Do you understand?”

“…yes…” Boopsie replied, her voice barely a whisper.

Charles had to bend forward to contain his erection.

“Very good,” Mandrake complimented.  “Further:  Whenever he touches you on the forehead and says the word _Trance_ , you instantly fall back into deep hypnosis, where every command and suggestion he gives you **_must_** be obeyed.  Do you understand?”

“…yes…”

“Finally, whenever he touches you on the forehead and says _Normal_ , you will return to your normal self.  However, you will have no memory of anything you did as a slave.  Do you understand?”

“…yes…”

Mandrake straightened, looking squarely at Charles.  “That should do it.  You sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” snapped Charles.  “Yes, yes!  Now bring her out.”

The billionaire pulled out his Viagra, eagerly popping two of the blue pills.  Mandrake, disgusted, pretended not to notice.

So the hypnotist gave Boopsie a few more commands, erasing her mind completely of his own existence.  He ended by saying, “And now, you will sleep for five minutes.  At the end of five minutes, you will awaken completely, with no memory of how you got here.  Do you understand?”

“…yes…” the entranced Boopsie said yet again.

Mandrake snorted, collecting his egg box.  “I’m out.  Please, man, don’t call me again, okay?  I really hate these mindfuck jobs.”

“Get out,” spat Charles in lieu of saying good-bye.  He couldn’t wait to be rid of the slimy hypnotist.

*****

Boopsie’s eyes fluttered open.  She frowned.  Where was she?

The cobwebs were clearing from Boopsie’s foggy mind.  She was sitting on a couch.  The lighting was soft, as if streaming through gauze or a light curtain.  The walls were duck egg blue, with framed art.  The smell-

She grunted, sitting up.  The young woman knew where she was.  Stockwood Manor!  She’d recognize that dusty old geezer smell anywhere.

“Ah,” a deep voice said beside her.

Boopsie swiveled.  There, sitting to her left was her slimeball ex-stepson, Charles Oakwater IV.  Or “Little Chucky,” as his father had called him.  Boopsie hadn’t seen this asshole since that disastrous estate hearing last month.

“ ** _You,_** ” she snarled.

“Hello, my dear,” Charles preened, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  “You look ravishing.”  He unmistakably looked at Boopsie’s breasts.

Angry, Boopsie couldn’t stop herself from hurling a “ ** _Fuck you!_** ” directly into his face.  It felt good.

But how the hell was she in Stockwood Manor???  The last thing she remembered… was bumping into Mario at The Hootin’ Beaver.  Did Mario betray her?  Did that fat sicko somehow drug her and-

Charles drew closer, still staring at Boopsie’s figure.

“Do you fucking mind???” the young woman exploded.  She leaned forward to stand up.

Before she could rise, however, Charles’ hand shot out, his fingers connected with her forehead.

“ ** _Slave,_** ” he said, slowly and deliberately.

Boopsie wasn’t sure what happened next.  Instantly, her fury dissolved into… love?  She looked at the man sitting across from her, and she found herself smiling.  This man, this handsome man, was so charming, so sexy, so wonderful in every way.  How had she not seen that before?  What was it about him she didn’t like before?  Boopsie couldn’t remember.

Feeling herself blush, Boopsie scooted as close to the man as she could.  Her fingertips touched his arms and then his chest.  Oh god, he was wonderful!  So wonderful.  She felt like a teenager in love.

Before she could stop herself, Boopsie leaned forward, and kissed the man softly on the lips.  His mouth was warm and gentle and her body tingled as they made contact.  Was she getting wet?

“Mmmm…” Boopsie heard herself sigh, and she melted a little as the man’s arms encircled her.  She was so happy.

 _I’ll do anything he wants,_ Boopsie thought instinctively.

As if the man had read her thoughts, his hands slid up her waist and dipped under her tee.  She felt those strong fingers gently touch the underside of her breasts, and she smiled mid-kiss at how good his skin felt against hers.  Soon his thumbs were tracing her curves and fiddling with her nipples.  They grew erect and delighted at his touch.

The two kissed for nearly five minutes, the man caressing Boopsie’s chest the whole time.  It was a deep, passionate kiss, the type where tongues wrap around each other, teeth clink together, and the jaw muscles stroke with an enraptured fury.  Boopsie moaned as she kissed, feeling swept away by feelings of lust and submissiveness.

Suddenly the man lurched forward, climbing atop her and pinning her body underneath his.  Boopsie was delighted.  His weight pressed down on her, and she could feel his erect dick poking at her beneath his trousers.  Now she let her hands explore his body, his wonderful, sensuous body.  She began pulling at his clothes.

And then both man and woman were stripping one another naked, gleefully shedding whatever clothes their fingers discovered.  They broke their kisses only to lift shirts over their heads.  Passion had to stall for a moment while Boopsie unlaced those heavy boots.

Now completely naked, Boopsie faced her lover with delight, sheer delight, in her heart.  She was no stranger to sex, of course, but this time felt very different.  It was as if she was under a spell, enchanted to love and lust for this mysterious man.  All she wanted was to feel his hands on her nude skin, and his dick in her wetness below.  Nothing else mattered.

“Roll over,” the man demanded, gasping.

“Yes master,” Boopsie said automatically.

As she moved to obey, the young woman smiled as she realized how easy, how **_natural_** it was to submit to this man and do what he wanted.  He was her master.  She was his slave.  The thought made her so happy.

Boopsie arranged herself on all fours, balancing on her knees and elbows.  She pointed her ass upwards, and sighed with delight as her master grasped and fondled both buttocks.  She hoped he would slide his fingers down into her crack, and then down further into her pussy.  Oh, that would feel sooooooooo good.

 _Oh fuck…!_ Boopsie thought, her brain going wild.  _I’m really, really fucking horny…!  FUCK…!!!_

The man took his time.  Why?  She knew he was fully erect.  She could feel his semen already dribbling from his cock’s tiny mouth. 

There!  Boopsie felt his slimy tip just barely touch the mouth of her vagina.  He was right there, poised and ready to thrust in.  Why wasn’t he?

In her mad lust, Boopsie shifted her hips back, as if she could plug herself onto his shaft and fuck him herself.  But the tip remained just tantalizing out of reach.

 _Oh God…!_ Boopsie thought, her mind barely organized.  _Why won’t he fuck me???_

The man’s restraint must have been incredible.  Even though he was poised to plunge in, Boopsie could feel his cock trembling.

But then the man spoke.  “What do you want, slave?” he sneered.

Boopsie didn’t have to think.  “I want you to fuck me, master,” she moaned.

“Really?” the man replied, his voice sadistic.  He smacked Boopsie’s left buttock, hard.  “How much do you want it?”

 _Jesus Fucking Christ,_ Boopsie thought in exasperation.  _He has to ask???_

“Oh my God, master!” she cried.  “So much, I want it sooooo much!!!  **_So much!!!_** ”

“ ** _Beg_** me, slave,” the cold voice said.  Boopsie’s right buttock was smacked.

Boopsie had never begged for anything in her life.  Not when she was a baby crying for her bottle, not when she was four and her father had cruelly walked out on the family, not when the corrupt cop had busted her for MJ when she was thirteen.  Not then, not ever.

But the hypnotism had warped and enchanted her mind, and Boopsie no longer had control.  She wanted to do whatever the man demanded.  She was his slave.

“Please, master!” the girl cried, squeezing her eyes tightly shut.  Her fingers clawed at the couch beneath her.  “Oh God, master,” she pleaded.  “Please fuck me, please, **_please_** , I’ll do **_anything_** , just please I beg you-“

He struck her ass again, the hardest blow yet.  Boopsie yelled out in pain and torment.

“Beg harder, slave!” roared the man.

The sting in her behind still biting, Boopsie let the pleas flow.  She was truly pathetic, groveling both in words and in body.  “Please, master,” she gasped, “your slave wants you to come inside so much, please, please!  Please!”

Either she had debased herself enough or her master couldn’t hold out any longer.  Either way, he plunged straight in, ramming into Boopsie’s pussy without hesitation.  Just like that.  Zero to Sixty in no time flat.

Boopsie, like all women, normally liked a gentleman to ease his way inside.  But not this time.  The hypnosis and sexual torture had worked her up into a lustful fever, and when the man’s cock thrust into her wetness, she almost wished he could enter her even harder.

But the sensation was incredible.  Boopsie loved sex, she had had her share of boyfriends and lovers in her brief time on the earth.  She knew her own body and what made her climax.  But she’d never made love while under hypnosis.  The suggestions Mandrake had planted deep within her were not only controlling her actions and thoughts, but were enhancing her pleasure too.  An orgasm experienced under hypnotism is far more powerful than any other.

Boopsie came.  She wanted to cum, of course, but with her master plugging her at top speed, she couldn’t have stopped the pleasure bloom even had she tried.  The young woman cried in unspeakable delight, her muscles quivering as waves of sensation and joy flowed from her vagina to all corners of her body.  For a moment, her thoughts winked out.

The man pumped on, cumming himself.  Boopsie felt him slow, then withdraw.  The instant his penis was gone, she felt a brisk coldness between her legs.  Her body gave out, and she collapsed onto the couch, a heap of wild hair and sweat.

The man groaned, and began pumping his own cock with his hand.  How he still had any stamina, Boopsie couldn’t say, but soon she felt hot, sticky goo raining onto her naked back.

She smiled.  Her master was happy with her.

*****

Charles finished masturbating, shocked that he still could perform.  Of course, the Viagra as helping.  But he didn’t think it was the drugs which was powering his lust.

No, it was Boopsie herself.  This gorgeous creature of sex, this perfect little female body, with her perfect breasts, perfect ass, perfect legs, perfect pussy… this absolute goddess of carnal pleasure… she excited him.  She physically excited him as no woman before had ever done.

Charles sighed in his bliss.  Absently, he touched his own semen, and began rubbing it across Boopsie’s naked muscles.  Like a good little slave, she arched her back, allowing him to mark her.

 _This is how all the world should be,_ thought Charles.  He controlled the Oakwater fortune, the estate, everything.  Soon, once the house was in order, he would descend on Wall Street to rule like the financial emperor he was.  Those piddling little CEOs and federal regulators, they would fall before him, and pray he didn’t overturn the markets on a whim.

And Boopsie…?  Boopsie would remain his, his slave, his willing toy.  Forever, perhaps.  Or at least until he grew bored with her.

*****


	6. One Decent, Respectable Human Being

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

Charles compelled Boopsie into having sex with him every night that week.  The master of Stockwood Manor was so enamored with his new plaything that he openly neglected his family, his mistresses, even the financial people who were clamoring for his attention.  All he cared about was satisfying his lust and restoring his house.

Both goals, unfortunately, seemed forever out of Charles’ reach.  The more he fucked Boopsie, the more she drove him even wilder.  The poor girl was imprisoned in the guest suite, kept there with hypnotic commands Charles put in her mind.  That way, she was there, naked and willing, whenever he dashed across the house in the need of a quickie.

But no matter how many times Boopsie pleasured him, Charles still wanted more.

*****

Five days after Boopsie had been captured, Charles had a particular aggravating time retrieving the priceless Persian carpets which had once occupied the third-floor reading room.  The new owner was willing to sell back the rugs, but Charles had tipped his hand too soon.  Now the carpets’ new owner, sensing desperation, wanted triple the price for them.

The transaction was surprisingly stressful.  Once the carpets were his again, Charles headed up to the guest suite, both aggrieved and horny.  It wasn’t even 11:00 AM.

Boopsie was lying on the bed, the bed which used a bookcase as its headboard.   Boopsie was clad only in her panties, watching TV.  She was stunned to see Charles so early in the day, but a quick hypnotic command turned her into the submissive slut her master craved.

“Come here on the bed, master,” she purred, sliding off her panties and then tweaking her vagina so Charles could see it.

The billionaire hurried over, pulling off his shirt and trousers as he did.  He mounted the bed, gratefully caressing those full breasts.  The two were kneeling on the mattress, facing one another.  Boopsie slid her hands under his silk boxers.  Charles leaned forward to kiss her.

Suddenly, the girl blinked, yanking back her hands.  Her expression betrayed confusion and alarm.  She was free of the hypnosis.

“…the **_fuck_** …?” she murmured, staring at Charles and then looking about the room.  “Where am-“

 _Blast,_ Charles thought, annoyed.  He had thought his control over the girl was absolute.

He pulled closer, wrapping an arm around the girl’s waist.  “Boopsie,” he said, his voice ringing with authority, “ ** _look at me!_** ”

Boopsie stared at him.  She looked terrified.

“ ** _Trance!_** ” Charles commanded, passing a hand over her eyes.

The posthypnotic trigger word had an immediate effect.  Instantly, Boopsie’s eyes closed and she sagged against Charles’ lean frame like a rag doll.  She couldn’t resist the call to go into deep hypnosis.

The billionaire smiled tightly, aroused by his domination of Boopsie’s mind.  “When I snap my fingers,” he told Boopsie, “you will become my grateful slave and pleasure me in any way I desire.  Do you understand?”

“Yes master,” the entranced Boopsie obediently told him.

Charles counted up, watching the girl awaken.  Hypnotism, he’d learned, was an easy skill.  Why, once Boopsie was under, she literally couldn’t resist anything he commanded her to do.  He’d already decided to hire back the Mesmerist fellow and have him enslave each of his mistresses.  Perhaps once all his women were hypnotized, he could have the orgy about which he’d been fantasizing.

Boopsie opened her eyes, life flowing back into her limbs and face.  “Master,” she said immediately, “I am your horny little slave.”  Her voice was coy and alluring.  “Let me satisfy you, master?”

Charles grinned wickedly as without another word, Boopsie flopped onto her back, spreading her legs wide.  As if reel him in, she was playing with her pussy and beaconing him with one naughty finger.

The master of Stockwood Manor, fully erect, climbed atop her, kissing her breasts and neck.  He was so erect, he didn’t need to position his cock with his hands; he simply pushed his hips forward, and his tip found its way into Boopsie’s waiting vagina.

Facing the bookcase, Charles began fucking, hard.  He arched his back and closed his eyes with sheer pleasure.  Feeling himself inside Boopsie was the one thing he loved with reservation these days.  Which meant, he reminded himself, he was going to need more erection medication.

Boopsie began moaning as her fingers danced on Charles’ naked hips.  “Oh, I am your slave, master, I am your slave,” she gasped, over and over.  Her submission to his power was complete.

Instantly, Charles came.  He has not been fucking Boopsie for a full minute yet, but her enslavement excited him too much.  The billionaire grunted and hissed as he pumped out his load, disgusted that he couldn’t prolong this incredible feeling any longer.

It would be a few hours before he could climax again.  Until then, he had a meeting with the foul little bed-and-breakfast owner who had purchased his Imperial vases.

*****

But the meeting did not go well.  Despite his sneers and threats of legal action, the owner of the vases refused to sell.  Cursing, Charles vowed revenge.  Somehow.

On the drive home, he was about to phone Reede and Hamilton when another call came in:  A Manhattan number.  Willow Crescent Associates.  Probably that bothersome Claudia Purdum, with more hysterical warnings about how few liquid funds he had on-hand.

Charles frowned, but picked up.  “Yes?” he said, barely containing his annoyance.

“ _Mr. Oakwater?_ ” an unfamiliar woman’s voice replied.  Her tone was stern.

“Speaking,” Charles replied, his tone clipped.

“ _Mr. Oakwater, this is Ileana Carter, senior partner at Willow Crescent Associates,_ ” the woman said.  “ _I’m afraid I have some difficult news._ ”

Despite his fury, Charles paused.  “Oh?” he said.

“ _Mr. Oakwater, are you aware of your current holdings?_ ” Ms. Carter asked pointedly.

“Well, I’m certain they are…” began Charles.  He thought for a second.  What was the total value of that last portfolio summary?  It occurred to him: he hadn’t really looked at those accounts for a few months.  Since he took the estate back from Boopsie.

“ _I’ll come to the point, Mr. Oakwater,_ ” Ms. Carter said.  “ _Our wealth management team here has come to the conclusion that your assets are depleted._ ”

“You mean the amount of cash I have at hand?” growled Charles.  “I told that Ms. Purdum: simply sell more holdings-“

“ _There_ **are** _no more holdings, Mr. Oakwater,_ ” Ms. Carter interrupted.

Charles was certain he’d misheard.  “I beg your pardon?” he asked incredulously, as if insulted.

“ _Your assets,_ ” the money woman repeated, “ _are depleted._ ”

That couldn’t be.  “The Oakwater estate is valued at **_$2.3 billion,_** ” Charles reminded his caller.  “How can that much money be… gone?”  It defied logic.

“ _Actually, the estate was never worth that much,_ ” Ms. Carter replied.  “ _We’re working to quantify the exact value, but at the time of his death, your father held a large number of commodities and serious debts.  We are only now realizing that he was an absolute expert at hiding liability, you see.  I don’t supposed he told you anything about this?_ ”

Stunned, Charles could only answer:  “No.”

“ _In addition,_ ” continued the finance executive, “ _you’ve been spending a considerable amount since you assumed the estate.  Ms. Purdum estimates she liquidated over $400 million for you, all of which you’ve spent.  That may be in excess of what your actual net worth is._ ”

“This is preposterous,” was all Charles could muster.  “I don’t believe a word of what you’ve told me.”

“ _I’ve reviewed all your accounts and portfolios with Ms. Purdum,_ ” said Ms. Carter.  “ _The numbers don’t lie.  And our records indicate Ms. Purdum_ **did** _try to warn you on multiple occasions-_ “

Charles flew into a rage.  The bean counters at Willow Crescent were supposed to manage his money, weren’t they?  This talk was outrageous!  And now they tried to blame **_him?!?_**

“You’ll hear from my lawyers!” Charles spat.  “I will sue your rotten, incompetent little firm down to the last sniveling accountant!  **_Do you hear me?!?_** ”

Angrily, he hung up.

*****

Charles fumed the rest of the drive back to Stockwood Manor.  As he forced himself to calm down, he wondered… could Willow Crescent be right?  Could the Oakwater estate be… bankrupt?  That just didn’t seem possible.  His father had placed the Oakwaters into the top one percent of the One Percent, one of the tiniest handful of families who controlled America by sheer wealth and influence.  How could that wealth be hollow?

The more he wondered, the more distraught Charles became.  The future was now clouded.  He craved… sex.  He had already fucked Boopsie only a few hours prior, but she was there as his girl toy, right?  She’d submit to him whenever and wherever he demanded.  After he’d plowed her, his thoughts would clear.  Then he’d think through how to deal with Willow Crescent.

The car pulled up the drive into Stockwood Manor.  The twenty-man landscapers were nearly done perfecting the carved hedges, Charles noted with approval.  Next week the fountains would be restored.

He swept into the great house, cruelly ignoring his wife, his children, his servants, everyone.  Charles stormed to the East Wing, up the lift to the third floor.  In moments, he was unlocking the guest bedroom suite.  His trousers were unzipped even before he’d shut the door behind him.

But the suite was unoccupied.  Boopsie had vanished.

*****

Of course, Charles tried to find and recapture his favorite slave.  After searching the suite himself, he called his two private investigators in a rage, demanding they hunt the little minx down.

But the task was impossible.  Boopsie had fled, and covered her tracks well.  Just as before, she had simply vanished.  The PIs even checked out The Hootin’ Beaver and every trailer park in the greater Albany area… but all to no avail.

Seething, Charles cursed his luck.  How had Boopsie defied the hypnotism?  He had carefully programmed her to believe that escape was impossible.  Obviously, there was something wrong.  He resolved to hunt down Mandrake the Mesmerist and make that sniveling wretch pay for the shoddy job he’d done.

*****

But soon, Charles had no time to think about Boopsie or even his other women.  Willow Crescent was becoming aggressive.

A team of executives in pinstriped suits drove to the manor, armed with ringbinders and charts.  While Charles bristled, they laid bare the true scope of his wealth.  Ileana Carter had been right; much of what the family owned was eclipsed by debts, massive debts that had festered for years.

“It seems,” a Willow Crescent executive named Harrison Black said, “that your father was a wizard at managing debt.  He’d borrow $500 million from the Germans, then make that $500 million look like solid investments to the Chinese, who would then lend him another $300 million.  And so on.  When it came time to pay up, he would syphon off enough to satisfy the interest payments.  But no more.”

Of the $2.3 billion that Charles Wilson Oakwater III had technically amassed, only $250 million was actually comprised of solid assets.  And even those had strings attached.

“Your portfolio is all smoke and mirrors,” Black said, shaking his head in amazement.  “Really, this should be a case study in banking and security fraud.”

“Fascinating,” snarled Charles.  “But what does this mean for me?”

The Willow Crescent executive straightened his wire-rim glasses.  “I’m afraid it means you and your family are in serious financial trouble, sir,” he said.  “If I were you, I would think about what tangible assets you still possess that you can sell.  Or the banks will do it for you.”

Charles opened his mouth to retort when an epiphany struck him like a freight train.

Now, with crippling hindsight, he realized why Boopsie had been so desperate to sell all she could when she was the master of Stockwood Manor.

**_She had known._ **

She had known all the time.  Somehow that trailer-trash little slut had perceived what the Oakwater children, the Willow Crescent people, the analysts of Wall Street, and the larger financial world could not; that Charles Wilson Oakwater III was living on a money bubble of his own making.  Boopsie had foreseen that the creditors would swoop in once the old man wasn’t able to cast his illusions.  She had done everything she could to stave off that moment.

Mandrake the Mesmerist had been right about one thing:  Boopsie was incredibly intelligent.  Had she been born into the Oakwaters instead of the Brownes, she might have been the financial genius Charles IV would never be.

*****

Charles fought the finance people as best he could, but there was no denying the reality of the situation.  Too many international firms were demanding their money, and he couldn’t pay.  The banks stepped in.

And yet, there was reason for hope.  The Oakwater name, while not as wealthy as before, was still respected and feared in the financial world.  Many CEOs owed the family favors.  Charles was determined to collect.

Determined to rise from the ashes, Charles began laying the groundwork for the Oakwater Investment Group, a firm that would eclipse Willow Crescent in scope and ambition.  Using every connection Charles had, he would pool another fortune of other people’s money, invest it carefully overseas, and reap an even greater fortune than before.

Success was assured; it was only a matter of time.

*****

But next Friday, Charles sensed something was wrong immediately when he got home.  It had been a long few days of wooing investors in Manhattan; he was weary and looking forward to the long weekend.

The two remaining maids of Stockwood threw curious glances his way but melted before Charles as he entered the manor residence.  Hanover the Butler cast him a sour look, sour even for Hanover.  And no-one in his family appeared to greet him.

Puzzled, Charles ordered the kitchens to send up some dinner, then settled into one of the parlor rooms to wait.  He clicked on the TV.

The screen lit and went to Fox News.  There, the pretty blonde behind the anchor’s desk was prattling on about the latest liberal outrage.  Charles eyed her, appreciating her beauty more than anything she was saying.

“ _Next up, in a Fox News alert_ ” the blonde announced.  “ _A young woman reports that she was kidnapped and hypnotized into becoming a sex slave!  And get this… her kidnapper was her legal_ **stepson** _!_ ”

The screen cut to a still photo of Boopsie.  “ _You may remember this young woman, Miss Boopsie Browne,_ ” the blonde’s voice continued.  “ _Last seen on this program for marrying Charles Oakwater, the financial genius of his age.  Well, now, Ms. Browne is alleging that her stepson, Charles Junior, had her hypnotized and kept her a prisoner for sex acts!_ ”

Charles felt the color drain from his face.

“ _In an exclusive interview with the National Enquirer that is being shared with Fox News tonight,_ ” the anchorette exclaimed, “ _Miss Browne has provided detailed accounts of her imprisonment.  She has also provided this self-recorded video as proof.  Warning: the following may be inappropriate for our younger viewers._ ”

The scene cut again, now to a steady shot of what was obviously the Stockwood guest suite.  The camera had been placed at the head of the master bed, probably on the bookshelf.  Charles and Boopsie were kneeling on the bed, facing one another.  Boopsie’s eyes were closed, in a trance.

“ _When I snap my fingers,_ ” the on-screen Charles told Boopsie, “ _you will become my grateful slave and pleasure me in any way I desire.  Do you understand?_ ”

“ _Yes master,_ ” Boopsie replied tonelessly.

Charles snapped his fingers, and Boopsie woke.  She leaned forward to kiss him, deeply.

“ _Yes, that’s right,_ ” the blonde anchor crowed, both shocked and titillated.  “ _The two people in this footage are technically stepmother and stepson!_ ”

The picture cut to Boopsie, alone, being interviewed, on-camera.  She looked stricken.  “ _I just can’t believe what I’ve been forced to do,_ ” she wept, looking pitiful.  She spoke in a fake Southern accent.

The on-screen picture changed once again, this time to Charles and Boopsie fucking.  Boopsie was on her back and at the bottom of the frame; her sensitive body parts were digitized out.  On top, was Charles, thrusting away.  The camera was positioned so that his face, his orgasming face, was center screen.  There was no way he could be mistaken for anyone else.

Charles felt dread eat him alive.  Too late, he saw the trap as it was sprung.  Boopsie, that clever little tramp, had somehow freed herself of the hypnosis without tipping her hand.  She’d found the digital camera equipment in the suite.  Then she’d figured out how to set up a camera, filmed their last sexual encounter, and made sure it looked like she was under a deep hypnotic spell the entire time.  Once Charles’ back was turned, she’d grabbed the evidence and escaped.

The camera cut back to the Fox News anchors.  “ _I mean…_ **stepson** _and_ **stepmother** _?!?_ ” the blonde cried, turning to the other panelists at her desk.

A heavy-set man with white hair and thick jowls was shaking his head.  “ _Its nothing short of shocking, Susan,_ ” he drawled.  “ _The Oakwaters are one of America’s premiere families.  To think that something this depraved could-_ “

Charles’ cell phone rang.  Numbly, he picked up.

“ _Mr. Oakwater?_ ” the male voice on the other end said.  “ _This is Peter Macon of the New York Post.  Would you care to comment, sir, on the story that you hypnotized and then raped your stepmother?_ ”

*****

That was the end for the Oakwaters.  In the age of Occupy Wall St. and #MeToo, the scandal touched too many raw nerves in American society.  Boopsie successfully portrayed herself as an innocent, brainwashed victim and the media ate it up.  Condemnation was universal.

Boopsie had wanted revenge, of course, but she was more interested in money.  She’d tried selling her story and footage to any media outlet who would listen.  Most refused to pay.  The National Enquirer offered her a mere $10,000, and desperate, Boopsie accepted.  She filmed one television interview as a part of the deal.

And then, the young girl had decided she’d had enough of New York.  She snatched her money, chopped and dyed her hair, and then hopped on a bus for Colorado, never to return.  She spent the rest of her life dreaming of those few months when she was the wealthiest woman in America.

The Oakwaters, Charles especially, were pariahs.  Investigative reporters began poking into the histories of all the Oakwater children, only to discover how sick and depraved the family was.  Abigail Oakwater was addicted to multiple painkillers and ran a finance scam they preyed on senile retirees in Florida.  Randall Oakwater was caught financing an underground child pornography studio out of the Philippines.  Stephen and Jennifer Oakwater… well, they had skeletons, too.

Lawsuits and criminal charges piled up, driving the family to social and financial ruin.  Stockwood Manor was seized by the IRS and sold at auction for less than 1/100th of its actual value.  And it was purchased by a chicken company who planned to bulldoze the mansion and then build a slaughterhouse on its hallowed grounds.

The last person to stand in the old house was Hanover the Butler, servant to the Oakwaters for almost forty years.  As he locked the front door for the last time, all he could think was that throughout this sordid affair, there was not one decent, respectable human being.

*****


End file.
